the Little Palace Diaries
by midnightsnapdragon
Summary: From the outpost in Kribirsk to the sumptuous halls of the Little Palace, Alina's video blog records the experiences of a newly minted Sun Summoner. ("The Lizzie Bennet Diaries" AU.)


Alina's eyes stare dully into the camera.

A minute passes. Two minutes. Behind the dark circles and mouth twisted permanently sour, you can see she's trying to find some way to put this absurd idea into reality. To start off with something catchy – something clever – that draws on her being born in a nameless village, or raised in an orphanage, or living out the rest of her life playing second fiddle to a cocky, handsome, very thick best friend –

Oh, who is she kidding. Her life isn't _that_ interesting.

"Yeah," she says finally. "I have no idea why I'm doing this."

And reaches to turn the camera off.

* * *

Alina's eyes stare dully into the camera.

"Take two," she says.

She's squished into a corner of a huge canvas tent filled with cots and standard-issue army coats. Hers is dusty and crumpled like she chucks it on the floor each evening without bothering to fold it.

"We're going into the Fold tomorrow," she whispers. "So I guess I'd better leave some record of my last wishes or whatever, for Mal to find if he gets back alive, or Ana Kuya."

She pauses.

"I'm whispering because I was supposed to go straight to the mapmaker's tent after arriving at camp, and this ought to be a decent hiding spot while I figure out –"

Breaking off, she sighs.

"With my luck, Mal's going to get a much cooler death than me – glory and gore, galore. I can see it now …" She spreads her hands through the air like painting a picture. "He gets lifted into the air by a volcra, screaming some kind of war cry. He fights! He struggles! He fires his rifle, but in vain! He probably explodes the skiff, too, for good measure. I know there's gunpowder reserves." She snorts. "Whereas _I_ fall over the railing and choke on sand and die."

Behind her, a capped head pokes through the tent flaps. It's a young man, smiling genially, a playful twinkle in his eye that says _I should totally report you, but nah._

"Skipping on duty, Alina?"

The amusement drops from her face as she lunges to turn off the camera.

* * *

"So," says Mal, peering into the black lens, "is this like a vlog? You're doing videos now?"

"Yep. And you're gonna help me film my last will and testament." She pulls him down beside her on the low cot.

"Do I get to wear a silly costume?"

"Where are you going to find a silly costume in an army encampment? No, forget that, why would you even want to? You don't have enough dignity left to sacrifice."

He puts a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. "_Miss _Starkov. There is _nothing _more dignified than costume theatre."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

Mal seems to give that some consideration. Then he takes Alina's coarse brown blanket and drapes it over his head like a cloak-and-hood. Hunches his shoulders, sticks out his head, makes a creepy face with one eye bigger than the other.

"Better pray to your saints, little girl," he wheezes like a man straight out of his coffin, "cause if you don't, I'll come to you in the night and stuff the _Istorii Sankta _down your throat."

Alina shifts away from him a little, eyebrows raised. "And you are …?"

Mal grins, back to his old self, and shucks off the blanket. "The Apparat."

"Ew."

"Like you can do better?"

Alina searches her surroundings, lips pursed, and grabs somebody's black coat off their hook. Instead of putting her arms through the sleeves, she ties them around her waist like the belt of a _kefta_, and tilts her chin to give Mal a haughty look. "And just what do you think _you're _doing, peasant?" she says coolly. "You do realize that mocking the Apparat is heresy?"

Mal laughs and points at her. "Okay, let me guess. The head mapmaker?"

Alina inspects her nails. "_Otkazats'ya _scum."

"A Grisha? So you're –" His eyes go wide, and his voice hushes the tiniest bit. "– the _Darkling_."

She smiles conspiratorially. "Yeah."

In his best emcee whisper, Mal proclaims, "A guest appearance on the vlog of Alina Starkov by the one and only Darkling, who would like to formally apologize for nearly running her over this morning –"

"Psshhh. Like he'd ever get in trouble for squishing one measly peasant."

"Hey, if you ever run out of ideas, you could always make fun of the Second Army."

"Or film my own death on the Fold."

They fall quiet. For a moment there, they both forgot about the shadowy doom on the horizon.

"We have an evening off tomorrow," says Mal, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "In West Ravka. You want to go get a drink?"

Alina casts him a sidelong look, doubtful. "Is Dubrov paying?"

"He's not coming. Just you and me."

"Really?"

Mal smiles. "It's always just you and me, Alina."

* * *

Alina's eyes stare wildly into the camera.

"I only have a few seconds. Things went bad on the Fold. We were attacked – Mal was hurt – and then there was _light,_ I don't know where it came from. But it scared off the volcra. And here I am back at camp and for some reason everyone thinks Ihad something to do with it."

Shouting rises up outside the tent. Alina casts a panicked look over her shoulder, then turns back to the camera, lowering her voice. "What's worse is, I think I know where they're taking me. But I'm probably wrong." She scowls incredulously. "Why they would take a junior mapmaker to the Grisha pavilionis beyond –_"_

The entrance to the tent flaps open, revealing a very red-faced, very indignant Senior Mapmaker and a delegation of witnesses from the skiff. "Starkov!"

Alina swears, yanks the video-camera off its stand and stuffs it into her army coat pocket.

* * *

The frame shakes and shudders as the coach speeds down the road away from Kribirsk, jouncing with every stone under the wheels. Alina, wearing the red _kefta_ of a Healer, winces as the woman on her left passes a hand over the bleeding gash in her arm.

"I bet you're wondering," she grits out, looking into the bouncing camera across from her face, "what I'm doing in the Darkling's bloody coach, in a _kefta_ of all things, surrounded by guards whisking me away to Saints-only-know-where. Trust me, I am too."

A man's voice rises in protest from behind the camera. "We told you, you're going to Os Alta."

"Well, thanks, I'm not deaf. I mean _why? _I know everyone thinks I summoned that light, but I'm not Grisha, okay? I didn't do a damn thing on the Fold. So why does the Darkling think …"

Alina trails off, her eyes sliding somewhere off to the side. Underneath the sarcasm, it's easy to tell that she's afraid.

"The Darkling is rarely wrong," offers a gray-clad _oprichnik_.

"That's a comfort," she mutters, shifting uncomfortably as the Healer knits her skin back together. With the other hand, she gestures toward the man holding the camera. "This is – sorry, what's your name again?"

"Fedyor."

"Right. Thanks. This is Fedyor. He nicely agreed to this. First Heartrender I ever talked to, and I have to say, he's not so bad."

Someone off to one side coughs snidely, and Alina shoots them a dirty look. "Oh, I'm sorry. The first Heartrender who didn't nearly twist my arm off."

"I did not twist your arm off," Ivan growls.

"Only because the Darkling told you to be _nice_ to me. Which you're failing at, by the way. _Miserably._"

"Stop moving so much," the Healer snaps, "or there'll be a scar."

"Sorry."

They're all silent for a minute. The Healer finishes her work and pulls back. Alina inspects her newly mended arm with fascination, but the novelty soon wears off and she slouches in her seat, frowning through the window. The frame shifts as Fedyor switches the camera to his other hand.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye," she murmurs to herself.

"Can I turn this off now?" Fedyor asks.

She sighs.

"Yeah, why not."

* * *

Alina rubs a hand down the side of her face, yawning. Between the dark circles under her eyes, the filthy clothes and the ugly bruise on her cheek, she looks awful. The room behind her has changed: instead of the dim, messy army barracks, she's in a luxurious bedroom, furnished with rugs, a changing screen, silken curtains and a four-poster bed with blue hangings.

"Soooo," she says, messily stifling another yawn, "I'm in Os Alta. In the _Little Palace_ where the Grisha train. No, I don't – believe – it – either."

Her voice becomes too weary even for disbelief.

"Over the past few days I've nearly been killed _twice_ – first the volcra, then Fjerdan assassins. We rode for five days and I've never even touched a horse in my life before, so I'll have to sit on cushions for a week –"

She pauses, glances into the black camera lens.

"But you don't want to hear about any of that boring stuff, _do_ you."

Her eyes narrow as she wags a finger at the camera in an accusatory sort of way.

"You want to hear all about the illustrious _Darkling_. Who, by the way, still doesn't know he nearly ran me over that one time, so that makes three near-death experiences in … wow. Just as many days."

She blows out a breath, ruffling the lank hair hanging around her face. "Well, my nonexistent audience, I can tell you firsthand that the Darkling is surprisingly –"

The door behind her flies open. In walks a slender young woman in a cream-coloured _kefta_, auburn hair cascading past perfect cheekbones and over her shoulders. She's followed by two servants likewise dressed in white.

The Grisha's eyes land on Alina and widen in horror.

"All _Saints_, have you even bathed? And what happened to your face?"

Alina flushes and opens her mouth to speak, but the Grisha is already ordering the servants to draw a bath. They pull Alina to her feet and start undoing the buttons on her filthy clothes.

"Stop!" she shouts, pushing them away. "What_'_s going on? Who are you?"

"I don't have time for this," the Grisha snaps, and then her eyes fall on the camera. "Are you _filming_?"

Alina hurriedly steps in front of the lens, but in the next moment the Grisha shoulders her aside and bends to examine it. Her flawless marble face fills the frame, all smooth skin and golden irises flecked with gray.

"You brought a camera into the Little Palace," she whispers. "What were you _thinking_?"

Alina's out of sight, but her exasperated voice comes through loud and clear. "Hey, it wasn't _my_ idea to drag me here across Ravka."

"Is this a live broadcast?"

"I don't even know how to do that!"

The gorgeous Grisha bunches her lips together, nods in satisfaction, and abruptly pulls back, revealing Alina standing behind the bench with her arms crossed.

"I suppose it doesn't matter anyhow," says the Grisha. "Listen carefully. My name is Genya, and in one hour you're going to meet the king. It's my job to make you look presentable."

Alina's arms fall to her sides.

"The king?"

"Mm-hmm," says Genya. "Now, we could always film you bathing if you'd prefer that sort of thing –"

"_Fine_," Alina grumbles, and reaches behind the frame.

* * *

The windows of Alina's chambers are dark, an empty dinner tray on the carved table, forks strewn over smeared plates. Alina and Genya are curled up in armchairs, bare feet tucked under the cushions.

"We don't live under rocks, you know," Genya's saying. "Grisha have access to the internet. We just aren't … supposed to have anything to do with it."

"Right," says Alina. "That's going to be a bummer. I don't suppose I'd be allowed to post this on the net?"

"Oh no, it's perfectly forbidden. Everyone would perish where they stood if they knew you were giving away ancient Grisha scripture and whatnot."

"What, 'snobbery and elitism'?"

"And good fashion sense." Genya brushes a lock of auburn hair over her shoulder. "So. Tell me what you think of the palace."

"It's … very grand?"

"Alina," she says reprovingly. "I would think that you can be honest with me."

"Fine. It's disgustingly opulent, and I think Ravka wouldn't be starving if the king used half as much wealth on feeding his people as on decorating his hallways with filigreed gold."

Genya's quiet for a moment, her eyes fixed on a spot in the rug.

"I never quite thought of it that way."

"Well, I grew up in Keramzin," Alina mutters, drawing her arms around her knees, "and there were never enough boots to go around, let alone sugar and buttered rolls."

An awkward pause follows, before Genya says brightly, "And what do you make of their royal majesties?"

Alina glances into the camera.

"You know what? I have a better idea."

* * *

Two minutes and a rummaging through Genya's jewelry box later, they're back in position before the camera.

Genya has on the tidy military cap that Alina wore to meet the king a few hours ago, plus an exaggerated slouch. Alina herself reclines on a chaise lounge wearing a feather boa and extravagant dangling earrings, looking down her nose at Genya with a haughty air.

"Tell me, Miss Starkov," Alina says in a snooty voice, "are you from a Grisha family?"

Genya puts on the thickest peasant accent she can manage. "Actually, _moya tsaritsa,_ I was raised in Duke Keramsov's household."

"An orphan!" says Alina-as-the-queen, fluttering her fan imperiously. "How _marvelous."_

Genya stifles a snort.

"A humble girl," Alina goes on, hamming up her role, "plucked from the First Army, like a diamond in the rough –" She examines the back of her hand, as if contemplating her bejeweled rings. "You must take care that court life does not corrupt you as it has … _others_."

"Well, I will certainly try, _moya tsaritsa," _Genya reads off the hastily written script in her hand, "but I can't say that I have much experience in court life anyway."

Alina-as-the-queen nods approvingly. "Charming. I _loathe_ pretense."

She says the last bit with such shameless hypocrisy that Genya bursts out laughing.

"Oh, Saints," she says, shucking the hat. "You do her justice, the old cow."

Alina grins. "Thanks for helping out."

Rising gracefully to her feet, Genya smooths down her cream-coloured _kefta_. "You should get some sleep," she says. "Tomorrow you meet Baghra."

Alina wrinkles her nose. "Who's Baghra?"

With a wink at the camera, Genya swishes out of frame.

"Genya," Alina calls with a look of growing dread, "_who's Baghra?"_

* * *

Alina's eyes stare dully into the camera.

"So," she says wearily, rubbing a hand against her forehead. "It turns out that Baghra is," a deep breath for maximum venom, "a _witch_. A vile, sadistic old _hag _who _hits people with a cane. _She'd get along swell with Ana Kuya."

Her surroundings have changed again: a small, cozy-looking room with dark red couches and a flickering hearth by the left wall. The open doorway behind her shows a back corridor of the Little Palace, richly carpeted with dark wooden panels.

After a brief account of her day – confusion, disbelief, fine food that does nothing for her appetite – Alina turns to her conversation with the Darkling.

"– and all he did was ask about my day? Then he wanted a look at the scar on my hand –" She stops abruptly, her face going red. "Cryptic bastard," she mutters. "I wonder how he'd like it if I got in _his_ head for once? It's probably just a giant closet full of black _kefta_, and maybe a hairtie or something for his man-buns."

Her eyes widen with inspiration and she runs from the room.

The video cuts to Alina hurrying back in with a black coat she must have pilfered from someone's quarters.

"I've been waiting to do this _all day," _she says gleefully.

Instead of putting her arms through the sleeves, she ties them around her waist in an approximation of a _kefta. _She pops the collar and ties her hair back in a ponytail, even straightens from her customary slouch. Evidently, her impression of the Darkling has grown in detail since the day he nearly ran her over with his coach.

Then she turns dramatically and looks at the camera from under her lashes, and says in the deepest, most seductive voice she can muster:

"Hello. I'm the _Darkling. _A hundred and twenty, but still fine as hell. I'll stop wearing black when they invent a darker colour. Nobody knows my name because I'm too fucking mysterious for that."

She reaches out to tilt a hand under the camera, as if under someone's chin.

"No, don't look at the man I just chopped in half. At _me._ Am I not prettier than a bisected corpse?"

It takes some editing and costume changes, since Genya isn't on hand to help out, but Alina manages to put together the following:

_THE DARKLING: _"Sit down, Alina."

_ALINA: [uncomfortable fidgeting]_

_THE DARKLING: _"How was your first day?"

_ALINA: _"Fine?"

_THE DARKLING: _"Lonely? Homesick?"

_ALINA: _"A little."

_THE DARKLING: _…

_ALINA: _…

_THE DARKLING: _"All right. Cool." _[points aside]_ "You can go through that door over there, so no one out in the dining hall asks you if we were making out."

Alina's face appears in a fuzzy, too-bright close-up, her nostrils on full display. "I'm _paraphrasing_," she stage-whispers.

Then she's back on the bench as her own confused self.

_ALINA:_ "That's it? You're not angry I still can't summon? I thought I'd be dead in a horse-cart on my way to Tsibeya by now."

_THE DARKLING: [laying a hand on his heart] _"I'm not a _monster, _Alina."

Alina blows a strand of hair off her forehead.

"So, long story short, the Darkling is still shady as fuck and I still can't so much as light a candle. Wonder what's going to change first."

* * *

Throughout the Ravkan winter, Alina trains at the Little Palace, suffers through Baghra's lessons, and worries over Mal. Why hasn't he responded to her letters? Did he even get them? Is he badly injured somewhere in a filthy field hospital, while she selfishly nurses her resentment?

So instead of paper letters, she starts sending him the videos, saved on tiny data keys and sealed in Little Palace envelopes. If she can't _tell _him about her new life, she'll just _show_ him. Alina dons a costume for everyone in her new life: a shawl and cane for Baghra, a monocle for David, a spiffy hat and pair of earrings for Genya, a blue scarf for Zoya –

Over this last she hesitates, remembering how Zoya had smiled at Mal back in Kribirsk, but now and then Genya's willing to assist with a skit, and gamely throws the scarf over her shoulder to mimic Zoya's ostentatious flair.

But the best fun of all is impersonating the Darkling, whose air of dignity makes it unreasonably funny whenever Alina tosses her head back and says in her chilliest voice, _"_Ignorant _peasants_," or, "Ivan, put extra guards around the _banya_ tonight, I've been working out." Genya never dares to put on his costume_, _so Alina perfects her imitation of the Darkling's posture; his cool, regal stare.

(It's not _mockery_, she reassures herself, as she waggles her eyebrows at "Ivan" (Genya in boxing gloves and a workout headband she swore would spoil her hair). After all, why should the Darkling's image stay untarnished? Everyone should learn to be laughed at.

Especially him, that enigmatic son of a bitch.)

One day Alina comes running back into the Little Palace after a lesson with Baghra, pink-cheeked and stifling giggles.

"You're not going to believe this," she hisses to Genya, dragging her down the hall to the cozy living room where she hides her camera. "I just heard the Darkling arguing with Baghra, and I swear it's the most worked up I've ever seen him …"

Genya looks incredulous. "Please tell me we're not going to –"

Alina grins. "We're going to recreate it." And she puts a script into Genya's hand.

* * *

On the bench, Genya throws the ratty old shawl around her shoulders, picks up the broken hat stand that serves as a cane, and hunches like an old woman. Alina puts on the black coat – popping the collar, of course – then ties her hair back and tilts her head at a proud, languid angle, like a cat.

Apropos of nothing, Genya whacks Alina's shin with the cane.

"Stand up straight, boy!" she shouts, and Alina in her black coat very conspicuously squares her shoulders. "Is this how I taught you? A Darkling does not slouch! He must thrust out his chest with pride, like a rooster! That is how the rooster shows domination!"

"How dare you," sneers Alina, "compare me to a _farm bird. _I am most like the majestic peacock, only black. Colours are for clowns."

"So what do you call that blush?"

Behind them, a figure in black passes the doorway, then slows, looking into the room. At this distance, not much is visible except the markings of a _kefta _and a flash of pale neck above the collar.

"Oh, Alina," says Alina, faking a double-take to her other side. "I didn't see you there."

Genya, who's swiftly ditched the shawl and cane for Alina's military cap, comes to sit on "the Darkling's" other side. "Were you just arguing with Baghra? I didn't think you knew each other."

"Everyone who wears black knows each other at the Little Palace," says Alina, inspecting her nails. "It's like a secret club."

"So it's just the two of you, then."

The figure in black lingers in the doorway, listening.

"Well I think," Genya-as-Alina goes on, "that she's good for you."

"Why's that?" Alina purrs.

"Because she's the only one around here who isn't scared of you or constantly trying to impress you."

"Are _you_ trying to impress me?"

"You wish!"

Behind them, the figure in black says pleasantly, "That's not what you said."

Alina and Genya both freeze, as if someone's cocked a gun against their heads.

"Of course, I'm sure the sentiment was there," the Darkling adds, as if in afterthought. "But I imagine it would be good practice to ask for a second opinion."

Genya whirls in her seat, her mouth an O of horror. _"Moi soverenyi! _We were just …"

"No need to explain," he says smoothly. "If I could have a word with Alina?"

This is followed by an excruciating silence. Alina, her face gone bloodless, locks eyes with Genya in a silent plea, but Genya only shakes her head and flees the room.

As the Darkling steps inside – his footsteps muffled by the rugs – Alina closes her eyes and mouths, _fuck me._

* * *

"So this is what you do when you're not training."

The Darkling joins her on the bench. There's no judgement in his tone, only amusement, as his eyes travel from the camera to the pile of costumes dumped on the floor to Alina herself. "I'm continually surprised."

She flushes. "I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect. It's not public, it's just for me –"

He raises his eyebrows. "Just you?"

"Well. No. They're for Mal. I've been sending them, like letters." She looks down at her hands, twined in her lap. "I guess he hasn't gotten any of them."

"Alina," he says gently, "all video correspondence from the Little Palace is closely monitored."

Her head jerks up. "You've _seen_ them?"

"It's a matter of state security."

"Oh," she says. "Oh, wonderful. So, just to be clear, how many have passed through your hands?"

"Starting with the entry in my coach on the road to Os Alta, all of them." He picks up the military cap from the pile of disguises and looks at it thoughtfully. "This is the costume you use for Alina Starkov in every video. You still think of yourself as a soldier of the First Army."

"It's not that. It's just, what else would I use? I'm not going to fix a halo or a Christmas star to the back of my head, like the Apparat would want. He's already off his rocker with the saint stuff."

"I agree. No saint would have eviscerated the values of his church the way you have on-camera." Seeing her wince, his lips twitch into a smile. "Speaking of which, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Fire away," Alina mumbles, as if what she really wants is for him to fire a bullet into her skull.

"When you first arrived at the Little Palace, you started to tell your friend that I was surprisingly … something. But you were interrupted."

"You really want to know?"

"I hope you'll forgive my conceit. But I admit I'm very curious."

She clears her throat and darts a look at him. "I was, uh … I was going to say you were – surprisingly human."

The Darkling smiles, then, but it's a strange smile, as if she's made a joke without realizing it. "Human," he repeats softly. "What else would I be?"

"Sorry again. I'll delete the footage."

"If you like. But may I suggest something instead?" When Alina gives him a wary nod, he proposes, "Why don't we set the record straight. About the particular conversation Genya was helping you to depict just now."

"You mean –?"

She trails off, her mouth falling open, as the Darkling produces a hair tie out of thin air and arranges his hair into a sleek tail – in perfect, unmistakable imitation of Alina's costuming.

He turns to her, as if for approval.

"Well," she says finally, as if things couldn't possibly get any weirder. "I guess we're doing this."

"You'll be yourself, naturally," says the Darkling, handing her the military cap. "I know all of my lines."

Alina dumbly takes the cap.

* * *

Reviews are always appreciated!


End file.
